


Once Upon a Bookshop

by moffnat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Bookshop, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Druglock, M/M, Parentlock, bookshop au, drug!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/pseuds/moffnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a widowed single father recently returned from Afghanistan, struggling to pay rent and supply for his young son. But when his bookshop gets broken into and books go missing, John meets an ex-drug addict that will change the lives of him and his son forever.</p><p><b>UPDATE:</b> Abandoned 2013. The Sherlock fandom is <i>cruel</i> to me. I have no desire to complete a fic for those who don't appreciate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Guest

There was no sound more brutal or unwelcomed than the blaring of that blasted alarm clock. At the crack of dawn it wailed and screamed for John to awaken from his dreamless, rather rugged sleep, repetitve and annoying. Groggily, the soldier tore himself from his somewhat comfortable position and slammed his hand on the blessed “off” button. Though the routine of waking up early had been etched into his body’s basic functions, John by no means enjoyed it. His body gave a few cracks and pops in complaint as he rose from the warmth of his blankets, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and rubbing his face to the shine of the rising sun.

Reality is a cruel mistress.

John couldn’t protest much to the life that he was leading; he’d landed himself in two jobs he was content to work and though his shoulder gave him pain every so often, it wasn’t completely unbearable. But the stresses of city life had certianly been weighing on him, what with the increase of rent and the lowness of his pension, and it certainly made living in London tight and difficult. Still, he managed to push by with what little strength remained in his wallet and his heart. It could always be worse.

His thoughts were halted by the small, subdued “daddy?” that came from behind his door, and felt himself melt.

“Come in, Hamish,” he beckoned, rubbing his eyes once more before leaning forward to catch a glimpse his son entering the room.

Little Hamish Watson, soon-to-be six-year-old, padded into his father’s bedroom with a small yawn. His blonde hair was scrawled every whichway, green eyes barely open and ladden with exhaustion, blanket trailing behind him. The boy climbled slowly onto the bed, though he was barely able to do so and snuggled deeply into his father’s open arms. “You need to wake up, daddy.”

“I am awake,” John chuckled in response. “Ready to go to work?”

“Yep! I’ll put ALL the books away~” he giggled, spreading his arms wide to show his father just how many books he would assist with. John produced a hearty laugh, kissing his son on the top of the head and rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles.

God, how that boy reminded him of Mary. His late wife, hair blonde and curled to perfection, with a small nose and almond-shaped, emerald eyes cast her spirit well through their son. She was perfection in a woman, as far as looks were concerned, and though their relationship was anything but top notch John continued to love her even beyond her passing. Hamish and Mary were so alike that it ached John’s heart most days, but he was accustomed to doing what soldiers do best; brushing it off and marching on. He gave Hamish’s tiny nose a poke, warranting a high giggle from the young boy. 

“Great. Go on, go get dressed. I’ll be out in a bit.”

Hamish nodded and slid off his father’s bed, obeying the request, no doubt with a smile on his face. John let out a soft sigh as he watched him go, rising from his bed and stepping into the overused, nearly broken bathroom.

He gripped the sides of the sink, head hung, asking the question that every single parent ponders hopelessly; what the hell do I do now?

Raising Hamish had been no easy task. Playing the role of mother and father kept John hanging in the balance of sane and careless, and since Mary’s death shortly after Hamish was born, the soldier hadn’t discovered a route to make him and his son anything more than “struggling to survive”. Hamish knew nothing of the hardships John undertook, thankfully, but that didn’t make them invisible no matter how many laughs and good times were shared between father and son. John lifted his head to the bathroom mirror, seeing a terrified man stare grimly back. 

The truth was, he was falling apart.

Adjusting to civilian life hadn’t been easy after getting shot, not in that place, the cruel desert providing the unholiest of heat, blood spilling from his shoulder and out on the thick, hot sand. John wasn’t sure he’d ever see Hamish again under the rage of that desert sun, but the memory of that tiny crooked smile and the threat of him growing up parentless pulled the soldier through and made him sick with the need to recover. Nightmares still enjoyed the occasional visit to him every so often, and his therapist pinned the blame on that ever-present post-traumtic stress. The two Watsons only had each other now; that was the way it had always been and the way it always would be. John would do what he needed to make it work.

Once he’d finished showering and preparing for the day ahead, John wrapped himself in a towel and set out to find something suitable to wear.  He didn’t have the luxury of new clothes, all of his money going towards Hamish, school supplies, the like. Not that he minded. Deciding on a corded sweater and a pair of blue jeans, he dropped the towel and dressed himself, buttoning the denim and slipping the sweater over his shoulders when. The black object in the center of his underwear drawer immediately caught John’s eye. His gun. Loaded and ready, it would definitely be something he needed today of all days, regardless of the fact that he never left home without it anyway. Taking the weapon in his hand, he stashed it in the back of his jeans and pulled on his coat, stepping out into the living room, a confused little Hamish standing in his sight.

“Why isn’t the sun up, daddy?”

John felt himself sigh. Such a curious boy, Hamish was. This wouldn’t go without an explanation. John approached his son and knelt before him, taking the tiny hands in his own and meeting those familiar eyes.

“Remember that mean old burgular who keeps taking our books?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to go early and talk to him. Make sure he doesn’t take anything else.”

Hamish bit his lower lip. “Oh.”

“You’re going to stay with Mrs. Hudson while I do.”

Hamish frowned and nodded; it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the landlady’s company, John knew, but he simply didn’t like the reality of going somewhere without his father. Understandable. He kissed his son on the cheek and stood, keeping one hand over the boy’s and leading him from their small, homey flat before giving his confident assurances and a gentle goodbye.

  


* * *

  


The wind blew it’s icy vengeance across John’s small body, and he brought his coat closer to him in attempt to keep himself warm. Winter was just beginning to fade, though she was cruel in her passing and never left without a bit of whiplash. Not many people were wandering the streets at this hour, giving John the perfect advantage. He would find this mystery thief and make sure that he didn’t make his shop (and in consequence, John himself) a victim any longer.

Over the past few weeks, John had noticed subtle changes in the way he’d left the shop the night before compared to when he opened the following morning. Books would be misplaced, some returned to their home, others scattered and some missing altogether. The thought of a stranger doing things unknown in  his bookstore unnerved him; what would someone want with a bunch of old, used books from a store that barely stayed open as it was? John needed answers, he needed surety. 

Slipping the key in it’s determined slot, John turned it with a flick of his wrist and opened the door. 

Silence hit him hard. Had he been too late? All seemed to be as it was when he left, except for a few returns placed here and there across various endtables, a mess of books distributed at random along his desk, but nothing too out of the ordinary considering the thief’s M.O.

A loud thud interrupted John’s thoughts and made his head turn. John stayed absolutely still in case the perpetrator decided to make for the door, keeping his options open and his mind zoned in to the current and possibly threatening situation. He waited patiently. Nothing. One. Two. Three minutes. Nothing but turned pages and the occasional cough from the stranger. Deciding to test his luck and creep forward, John tiptoed as close as safely possible, feeling the weight of his gun in his waistband, just in case. 

The intruder seemed to freeze. He must’ve heard John’s footsteps. _Shit_. He peered around the corner in the darkness, unable to see the man in question but the familiar sound of fumbling through papers and books filled his ears. He was preparing to bail.

_Oh, no you don’t._

“Stop!” John shouted, pulling his gun from the back of his jeans and rounding the nearest shelf to come face to face with the burgular, whose hands slowly lifted, no sense of rush about him at all.

John’s face immediately fell.

The man had been...reading? Dirty shoes were propped up on the sidetable, a steaming cup of coffee beside him and books arranged neatly by subject, from what John could tell. The man looked rugged and unkempt, yet he wore a composed expression like someone of a high social standing or importance level; certainly not a homeless man, or was he? John lowered his gun slightly at the sight of him, mouth in a thin line, completely take off-guard at having expected the worst. “Y-...” he stuttered, at a loss for words. “You’re in my shop.”

“Obviously.” The intruder’s voice was deep velvet, a look of perplexion on his face. “I...should have asked?”

“Well, ye--wait, are you _reading_?”

“Yes.”

John lowered the gun completely. The stranger seemed to be studying him through the veil of darkness. How much could he see? “Wh--...there are libraries, you know.”

“Libraries require silence and hushed voices, neither of which I can provide.”

“...oh.” John felt the moment become increasingly, painfully awkward. “Do you...live nearby, then?”

“In a sense.”

“You’re homeless.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“When was the last time you...I dunno, ate something? Took a bath?”

“Awfully rude.”

“No, I--” Why was he defending himself? This man had broken into _his_ shop! The entire situation was strange to him, and before he could stop himself he’d opened his mouth to make a very grave mistake. “Just--are you hungry?”

“...What?”

“We’ll discuss it over breakfast.”

“Discuss what?”

“If you’re so keen on my bookshop, I don’t see why you can’t stay on occasion and work off the money for the books you stole. But you need to eat something, so, we’ll discuss it over breakfast.”

He looked puzzled at John’s words, which had come as a shock to the both of them. “I don’t see how that’s relevant. How do you know I haven’t eaten in a while?”

“Doesn’t matter. You break into my shop, and you’re turning down free food? Who do you think you are?” His tone was suddenly light and joking, coming from the “nowhere” area of his personality and he cleared his throat to make it seem less bizarre. “And I’m a doctor.”

John remained still until the stranger rose from his seat. He gave John a once-over before taking the books he’d gathered and organizing them again, long, delicate fingers tracing lightly over the spines of the books and eyes scanning the room to locate their homes. John was surprised at the quickness of the man putting away  stolen books, but there was also the matter of the small twitches in his fingers or the often scratching at his arm. “Here,” John offered after some time, extending a hand to take a few of the books from the man’s trembling ones. He hesitated before letting John take them, slipping them between the titles of their like until the doctor was satisfied with a shop that looked just the way he wanted it to. Apprehensive and shocked at his own potentially rash actions, John turned to the dirty man and drew in a breath.

“So. Breakfast?”

The dark-haired stranger cleared his throat, thinking the idea over before agreeing with a small, forced “...fine.”

John extended his hand and met the other’s unrealistically blue eyes for the first time. “John Watson.”

His lips parted in hesitation, eventually taking the soldier’s hand and giving it a brief shake. “...Sherlock Holmes.”

Well, this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ didn’t seem like a very happy man, that was certain, but John’s interest wasn’t in Sherlock’s well-being. He would get back the money for his stolen books one way or another, and coaxing this stranger with kindness might do the trick. He exited the shop and found himself once again facing the bitter relapse of winter, holding himself close, destination near in sight.

  


* * *

  


The restaurant around the corner seemed the perfect spot for John to take his unexpected guest. A 24-hour diner would be the only place that was open, and though the place had a suburb and casual style to it, John thought it was perfect. He pushed open the heavy swinging door, locating a suitable seat near the window and waiting for Sherlock to finally sit down. He ordered a small cup of coffee and some toast along with a full plate for the other man, who grimaced. 

“I don’t eat that much.”

“Oh please, these plates are massive. We’ll share.”

“I could have herpes for all you know.”

“You don’t have herpes. Not the kind I get from sharing a plate, anyway.”

“The flu?”

“Sucks for me.”

Sherlock scowled and sat in the chair across from John, completely unable to comprehend the situation before him, or so it seemed. John didn’t study him much for fear of making matters worse, and sent a brief text to Mrs. Hudson to see if Hamish was doing alright, which, of course, he was. Hamish was a well-behaved boy. 

The still silence between the two men was aching. John looked up to see if the stranger was still there, only to see piercing blue eyes stripping and studying him.

“...What?”

“Hm. Average.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re just an average man, why take a stranger who broke into your shop out for food? It doesn’t add up. Something’s wrong.”

“It’s called generosity, ever heard of it?”

“Very funny.”

Sherlock didn't back down, and his stare made John uncomfortable in his own skin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Observing.”

“Observing what?”

Sherlock hesitated, parting his lips in thought before folding his hands below his chin and staring across the table. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation. He was curious now.

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him one last time, unsettling at best, but the man’s sudden stream of words rendered him defenseless. 

“Army doctor. Single father. Widow. War veteran. You’re running two jobs, an obvious one at the bookshop, the other likely to do with your medical degree, I’m guessing a part-time doctor at some small clinic because you can’t afford to be away from your young son for too many hours of the week. I say young because your body shows signs of aching more than the usual man of your age, stress from your gunshot wound and also playing with your son. The texts you’re sending under the table to his babysitter are proof enough that he’s, oh, five? six? You’re wearing your old wedding ring on a chain around your neck, you haven’t taken it off in years except for the occasional cleaning. Your marriage wasn’t a happy one to begin with, but you’re not going to tell your little boy that. You’re a depressed trauma survivor whose only cling to life is his child, and you find that fitting because that’s what you deser--” John’s leg was twitching, eyes turned towards the napkin that his hands were fumbling with, jaw clenched, a dog kicked. Sherlock must have noticed it, for he suddenly stopped talking and cleared his throat, backing off and looking away. “It’s been a while since I’ve deduced to that extent. I...sorry.”

“No,” John shot bitterly back. “That was amazing. Nice little trick. Let me try that, yeah?” He leaned forward a bit, seeing the distress in Sherlock’s eyes as he did so. No holding back.

“Drug user, or rather, ex drug user. You’ve been scratching at your arms like mad. Just out of rehab, judging by how unfed and distraught you look, no one to take you in, give you a shower or something to eat. I’m not as good at this as you are but it takes a flawed man to know one, and I’m not falling for the ‘genius’ act no matter how much of an act it actually is. If you’ve got any kind of bloody decency in there somewhere, I’ll see you tomorrow morning when my shop opens at nine because you’re going to work off the money that you stole from me. And if not, I don’t ever want to see you around my shop again, is that clear?” He slammed a twenty pound bill on the table in his frustration, refusing to make eye contact and shot up from his chair to leave. The broken man pushed the door harshly open, fuming with anger and freezing from the cold, left hand trembling and the clacks of his cane lost to the wind.


	2. New Hire

Needless to say, John had absolutely no idea that Sherlock Holmes would show up the following morning.

As the looming silhouette in the distance came into view, tall and ominous in front of his shop door, John was struck with a merciless bolt of nervousness and anxiety. What had possessed Sherlock to actually show up, considering the way John had left things the morning prior? More importantly, John kicked himself inside for even making the ridiculous offer to begin with. It could be dangerous, and dangerous was not something John wanted or needed around his son. “Hamish,” he beckoned, looking down to the child with an instructive glare. “When we get to the door, I want you to stand behind me.”

The boy blinked up to his father, head tilted slightly to the side. “Why?”

“Just...do it. Please.” John wasn’t going to take any risks, not when all he had left was suddenly before the mercy of a stranger.

Hamish paused for a moment before nodding in acknowledgment, keeping his hand in John’s until the distance between them and Sherlock was tensely closed, silence only broken by the sound of the doctor’s cane hitting the ground with every other step. Hamish obeyed his father’s orders upon arrival and stepped behind him without a second thought, emerald eyes wide and peering out from behind John’s legs. The soldier kept Hamish’s hand held and looked up to Sherlock’s strong and wiry frame with trepidation.

Damn, that man could clean up.

Sherlock was wearing a rather form-fitting white button-down shirt of costly making, brand new darkened jeans and what John guessed to be a very expensive wool coat, not to mention a rugged blue scarf that he seemed to pull off quite well hanging loosely around his neck. His hair was washed and fresh, curled likely on it’s own, and John was intimidated as he was impressed by the clearness of his skin and the shine of his dark shoes. A transformation overnight, though it didn’t do much to soothe John’s nerves.

“You...you actually came.”

“‘Course I did,” Sherlock replied with a small shuffle of his feet. “Needed something to do, and you offered. It’ll help take my mind off of my current...predicament.”

John swallowed hard, justified in his apprehension over a barely ex-drug addict helping him around his main source of money. Around his son. Why the hell had John offered this man a job, anyway? What was there to gain from that? Just because the man could go from homeless to casual business in twenty-four hours didn’t make him any less of a potential threat. A conflicted sigh escaped the soldier’s lips, and he glanced at Sherlock once again before returning his gaze to the rustic shop door, realizing his options were limited. He didn’t want Hamish believing his father was merciless.

“...Right,” he surrendered. “I guess I should show you how it all works, then.” He pulled out the small silver key from his left pocket and unlocked the door, holding out a hand and signalling for Sherlock to step in first before flicking on the antique lights attached to the nearest wall. The shop was illuminated in a golden glow that made Sherlock’s jaw slightly drop. John recognized affection in his eyes, and smiled to himself.

The slightly faded wallpaper was a deep, patterned scarlet and goldenrod that dated back to the late 1850’s, worn by years and barely visible through the oaken shelves filled with books of extreme variety. Four long rows of shelves covered the first half of the store, filled to the brim with misorganized autobiographies, historical novels, science fiction and non-fiction works. The bookcases themselves weren’t in the best condition, but given the obvious history of the shop and the overall antique atmosphere, it added an authentic element that Sherlock seemed to find fascinating. Past the wooden rows and to the right was where John’s front desk was located, atlases, brochures and paperwork scattered everywhere in attempts for a neat organization that was clearly never completed. Behind the desk rested a tall shelf of adult novels adjacent to a door which undoubtedly lead to the back rooms, as well as an overused coffee pot on an endtable and some toys lain on the floor for Hamish’s enjoyment. To the left of the shelf-surrounded entrance, a bay window and an alcove made a pleasant reading spot for either John or a customer, or Sherlock, as John had learned the night before. A plush armchair the color of deep purple rested beside an end table made of cherry wood that didn’t quite match the shelving, a simple aged lamp and a photo of Big Ben sitting on it’s top near a coaster. The large window was adorned with green curtains of crushed velvet and gold filigree, slightly torn, but the effect was pleasing to the eye. The reading area was surrounded by walls lined with more built-in shelves, containing the whole of John’s fantasy, romantic and mystery novels. Various tables were places here and there throughout the shop, showcasing certian titles and popular classics such as The Fault in Our Stars, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Tom Clancey’s works (some of John’s personal favorites), and others. The ceiling was high to accomodate for the two levels, a large and modest chandelier made of decorative metal hanging in place above it all. In the center of the room stood a wrought-iron spiral staircase, which led up to John’s absolute favorite section; the classics.

The classics section, riddled with Jane Austen, William Shakespeare, Alexander Dumas and the like, could be more accurately named a loft than a section. The remaining ceiling hung low, maybe seven feet from the light-colored floor and the area was about thirty feet in diameter. There were no windows this high up from the ground, but ornate and artistically stitched rugs covered most of the hardwood flooring and offered some of many things to catch a customer’s eye. A long, white parlor couch sat between two intricately made floor lamps and strings of white Christmas lights hung loosely around the shelves. More wallspace allowed for freedom of decoration, and John had put up paintings of various landscapes and Edwardian style fashion to fill the emptiness. Well, Mary had hung them. John barely visited his favorite section anymore, simply becaue it was entirely of Mary’s desgin. The reminder of them on that mid-summer’s afternoon, just married, renovating the loft with lights and flowers and books was almost too much for his already troubled mind to bear. Hamish was the one who crawled up and turned on the lights in the classics section these days, unknowing of the thick stain of memories poisonously laced in the air. John never looked at the staircase anymore, and Hamish never questioned why.

As John turned his back to flip some more switches, his ears perked to the sound of little footsteps making their way over to the center of the room; to Sherlock. John turned quickly to see his young son staring up the stranger, locked in a battle of don't blink, a staring match, silently asking questions and observing the other’s peculiar stance.

“You’re tall.”

“...Obviously.”

“Are you going to help around the shop?”

Sherlock hesitated. “For a time.”

“I bet you can reach the big shelves and climb the ladders.”

No response. Hamish quirked his mouth sideways before holding his hand out and up. “My name is Hamish Watson. I’m five years old and I help run this place.”

“Hamish,” John amusingly scolded from the back wall, though he didn’t dare make a move to interrupt the obvious chemistry.

“Interesting name,” Sherlock stated, bending his knees and crouching to the child’s height as he took Hamish’s hand in his and gave it a gentle shake. “Sherlock Holmes. I trust you’re not going to let me steal anything from now on, am I right?”

“Yep.” Hamish gave an overexaggerated nod before holding up two fingers, pointing them at his eyes and then back to Sherlock’s in what John knew to be an awfully adorable gesture. He leaned in close and whispered, “ _I’ll be watching you._ ”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards. “I expect so. Looks like we’ll be working closely together.”

“Mhm. Don’t be naughty, mister.”

They stayed in a locked stare before Sherlock stood once more, a deep chuckle bubbling from his throat and glancing around a shop he was already vaguely familiar with. John gave Hamish a disciplinary look, to which the child simply giggled in the cruel way that turned his father into a puddle. There was no stopping that boy, John knew as much. He was a adventurous and daring, once his shyness had been overcome.

“Go turn the lights on upstairs, Hamish. Then I want you to start on the dusting.”

“Okay daddy.”

He watched as the boy climbed his way up the iron stairs, pausing for a moment of brief remembrance and turning back to Sherlock.

“Why do you ask him to dust?” Sherlock inquired, not really looking at John. The doctor figured that his new employee was only accustomed to seeing the shop at night, which would explain his apparent wonder at the beauty John had been numbed to.

“He likes to help. I know he doesn’t do much when he dusts, but it makes him happy.”

“Hmm.” The taller man traced the spines of volumes as he walked down the numerous rows, taking in all that he could. John cleared his throat to break the silence.

“Right. So...I’m assuming you know how to put books away?”

Sherlock didn’t turn to look at him. “Yes. Child’s play, really.”

“I usually have most of them put back before noon.”

“I can have them done in a half hour.”

“Right, yes I--what?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, giving John a slight smirk of arrogance before taking an alarmingly large amount of books in his arms from the return rack and scanning the room for their homes, fully concentrated on his current task. John managed to watch a bit as he moved back and forth with grace and swiftness, returning the texts to wherever they belonged, organizing what ones were already there and making room for more in the spaces. Seeing the man so busy and enthralled with his duties inspired John to do the same, and in the time alotted Sherlock had alphabetized and dusted the entire science and science-fiction sections along with half of the history wall, and the rack of returns had been emptied. John had been attempting to organize his desk, cane resting beside him though he certainly wasn’t oblivious to Sherlock’s progress. At the sound of Sherlock stopping to take a breath and wipe his forehead, John met his gaze with wonder and utter disbelief.

“I had no idea that my shop was such a pigsty,” John half-chuckled from where he sat.

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. “I’ve seen worse.”

“You break into bookshops often?”

“Hm. Perhaps.” The two locked eyes and grinned in their humor. John felt an electricity spark up his spine that he knew must have been reciprocated.

Sherlock seemed to smirk to himself before pulling over the rather wobbly ladder, climbing up to the top and placing the armful of encyclopedias away in their respective places. “Won’t be a mess for too long, anyway. Give me the rest of the week and it’ll be organized. Over the next few weeks we can catalogue each book, take count of how many there are by title, genre, the like...”

John leaned forward on his elbows, looking up at Sherlock across the room. “You’re really taking this seriously, aren’t you? Like...you actually enjoy this?”

Sherlock paused, thinking over his answer before offering a shrug. “I’ve learned almost everything I currently know, which is a significant amount, from books. The world’s knowledge is held in these little things, and working with them has always been a secret desire of mine. I guess I should be thanking you.”

John hummed in amusement. “Don’t, you’re the one who broke into my shop to begin with.” They smiled yet again in that same dangerously static way. John averted his eyes before it could become any more unsettling, and drew a breath. “With my leg and Hamish’s age, cleaning this place became a fantasy. I guess you’ll be around a while, then?” It was a wish rather than a question, and Sherlock’s eyes softened at the words.

“...For as long as I am able, yes.”

John was clueless as to why the affirmation made him smile, but it had.

  


* * *

  


The week passed by more smoothly than John would have ever hoped for. The cataloguing had yet to be started, the two men having agreed on postponing that project until after the shop was in top condition, but Sherlock had a useful hand to lend in basic store functions as a whole. On recieving day, he’d asked that John continued to sit and calculate the week’s sales while he went and opened boxes, putting the few new titles where they belonged and separating the sellable used books from the unsellable ones. Keeping his mind busy was something that Sherlock needed, so John observed, which was likely for the best given his precious drug of choice. Cocaine user, the doctor thought. Sherlock’s energy was a giveaway, though he never bothered to ask. A bit awkward, that. Sweeping, dusting, alphabetizing, straightening; Sherlock was willing to do all of it, and John suffered a silent appreciation as he did so. Sales hadn’t increased much, but it was significant, and though John was never one to care about the numbers he’d be damned if he didn’t admit there was _something_ different. Sherlock brought something to the shop besides a helping hand, and the good soldier couldn’t figure out what.

“It’s bin night,” John thought out loud, rising from his seat and ignoring the complaints of his body. Hovering over the bin, he pulled on the plastic strings and yanked the bag from it’s home, giving Sherlock a small nod. “I’ll be right back. Watch Hamish, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Clearing his throat, John gripped the plastic bag tight in his hand and his cane in the other, making for the exit, stepping out into the cool spring night and walking slowly down the barren back alley.

Sherlock was an interesting person, John had to give him that. The way he busied himself at all times but still knew when to stop or when to assist with a different task was a God-sent quality as far as John was concerned. The way he studied the shop as if it were a living, breathing thing, how he knew it’s parts and it’s functions, how his curls moved when he walked or the sound of his voice in the early morning--

“ _What?!_ ” John whispered hoarsely to himself, harshly pushing open the lid of the dumpster and tossing the rubbish inside, letting the top slam down in his frustration. No, John wasn’t that kind of man. No. No...maybe? The entire topic of Sherlock itself was enough to trouble him, the unrealistifc amount of trust, the openness, the shared custody of the shop, letting him watch his own son while he tended to the trash. This man was addicted to hard drugs and in a week, he’d become a large part of John’s life.

Where had it all gone wrong?

John didn’t look up at the stars or appreciate their wonder like he had on so many other nights. Riddled with his confusion and kicking himself in the ego, the stressed single father walked suddenly back into his store and rubbed his face dolefully. Nothing was the same anymore, and he wasn’t sure why it felt so damn good.

“P....p....”

He snapped from his reverie.

“P...plah? Plaw?”

“No. Again.”

John scowled a bit in bewilderment, forcing himself to walk forward in view of the small reading area by the window. The sight nearly floored him, and his breath hitched in amazement. Hamish had crawled up onto Sherlock’s lap, a book called "Pop Can Hop" in his hands, brows furrowed in frustration and annoyance.

“P...p...”

“Sound it out.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Don’t say that you can’t, or else you won’t. Again.” Sherlock pointed to the word on the page, and Hamish copied the movement.

“Pl...pl....” He frowned, adjusting further onto Sherlock’s lap and letting out a huff. A few moments passed. “Puh...pl-aced?”

The smallest of grins lightened Sherlock’s eyes. “Good. Continue.”

Such a small bit of praise sent Hamish into a fit of smiles, and he continued to read through the rest of the book with confidence. John obervesd in awe and admitted insecurity, watching his son become so familiar with a man he’d only known for a short while. But in seeing the two together, the more he _really_ looked at them, the insecurity was replaced with compassion, admiration and a terrifying relief. No one had gotten through to Hamish so quickly, and it was refreshing, to say the least.

“Hamish,” John called, stepping forward and gesturing with his chin to the back room. “Go get your things, it’s time to leave.”

“O-okay.” Hamish sadly looked up to Sherlock, who gave him a nod of assurance, before closing the book and sliding off his lap, padding into the back room as he was told. In the quietness John took the chance to stand a little closer to Sherlock, clearing his throat and fumbling with his hands subconsciously.

“Listen,” he began. “I, uh...you know. I think it’d be in our best interests...professionally, to talk about the shop. Over dinner. Sometime. Assuming you don’t have anything else that needs doing, that is." _Shit._ “Professionally.”

Sherlock raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards and a grin growing in it’s place. “Professionally,” Sherlock repeated over his amusement. “Right. Of course.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow after work, then?”

“Sure.”

“I know a restaurant on the other side of town called Angelo’s. I don’t suppose you know where it is, so...eight o’clock? Gives you time to get Hamish home and to a babysitter.”

John was completely unsettled by the eye contact Sherlock seemed to be forcing on him that he nearly tumbled backwards. “Uhh--y-yeah, sure. Sounds fine. I’ll just, you know. See you then.”

“Mm. Bring those sales results, I’d like to see them.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Silence infected them. They stood a moment, enveloped in each other’s gazes before Sherlock stepped back, looking suddenly distraught. “...right. Goodnight, John.”

“Yeah, you too...”

The other man was gone in a flash, leaving John behind to wallow in his affliction and muddle in the possibilities of everything he never wanted.


	3. I'm Not His Date

That night, John was once again visited by his nightmares.

The cruelties of war and misfortunes of the fallen often haunted his sleeping thoughts. On other nights, it was the memories of his late wife and all she took with her in death, or perhaps a mix of both evils--a blur of the two things John feared most mixing vivdly in his mind. He was used to being plagued by grim dreams, but it hadn’t made his heart harden in the wrong ways. If anything it equipped him with much needed anxiety and preparation for what could come of his current ordeal. He was certain that Sherlock was the root cause of his cautiousness and fear, but John justified it as something he enjoyed, something he was addicted to, and something he didn’t dare chase away. The fact that Sherlock was growing on him was a terrifying miracle in itself, and he often asked quietly in his mind,  _“What the hell have I gotten myself into?!”_

His alarm clock blared once more. Another day, another personal mystery unsolved.

The morning had followed their daily routine. John made breakfast for himself and Hamish, took a shower, got dressed, locked up the flat, and went to work. Seeing Sherlock waiting by the shop door as usual floored John more than it should, something the stubborn soldier wouldn’t admit to himself. 

There was an odd and familiar sense of rhythm about the three of them running the bookstore. Sherlock kept the shelves and reading area in spotless condition while John attended to customers and paperwork. Hamish helped when he could, doing small tasks within eyesight of his father and happily assisting in daily necessities. The day overall had remained uneventful, the comings and goings of customers creating a slow pace within the store, but John couldn’t help noticing the way Hamish looked adoringly up at the new hire. As he attempted to file some papers and dust his desk area, he watched Sherlock take Hamish’s hand, lead him up the stairs of the ladder and pass books up to him, one by one, telling him to think about where each book should be placed according to alphabetical order. It warmed John’s heart and cooled his head, seeing Hamish so responsive to learning, happy and bright in another’s company. Though the weight of dinner with Sherlock hung heavy on John’s mind and made him too awkward to say anything, he stood back in admiration and watched the two take care of his shop and fix what needed fixing, closing the store at the end of the day with nothing more than a few simple goodbyes and an “I’ll see you at eight.” John felt his stomach flip and churn with bittersweet anticipation, a feeling he hadn’t had in years and a feeling he was absolutely uncomfortable with.

The walk back home was covered in silence. Hamish trailed happily beside his father, humming the tune to the alphabet, unknowing of the panic and the racing thoughts of his parent’s apprehensive mind.

John pushed out an anxious breath as he opened the door to their home, stepping through the entrance and hanging his coat quickly on the peg. John checked his watch. 6:15. That gave him more than enough time to get ready, make some soup or whatever Hamish wanted for supper, and call Mrs. Hudson to watch him. Instructing his son to watch some telly, John went into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, fumbling through his drawers for something suitable to wear and groaning when he found nothing. He didn’t have the luxury of nice clothes, save for one tuxedo that he kept buried in the back of his closet, but that was far too over the top and he wasn’t certain it fit him anymore. John settled for some fresh jeans, a red jumper with the collar and cuffs of a blue and white plaid button-up peeking out in just the right places, and his favorite pair of light brown shoes. It wasn’t going to be a fancy place, he knew. Sherlock was homeless. John would most likely be paying for the whole thing, much like two people going out on a word John refused to use that started with the letter “d”. This wasn’t  _that_ . This was business. 

John stepped out from his bedroom, brushing off his outfit glancing up expectantly. “Well?”

To his surprise, Mrs. Hudson grinned widely from her spot beside Hamish on the couch, clapping her hands together and letting out a short, happy squeak. Hamish must have told the landlady about going to dinner with Sherlock, though  how exactly remained unknown. 

“Oh John,” the old woman chimed, rising from the cushions and brushing off his shoulders. “You look so dashing. What a lovely jumper, red really suits you. I’m so happy that you’re meeting someone, what a miracle.” She kissed John’s cheek, reeming with pride, her words leaving him baffled.

“W--this isn’t--no, Mrs. Hudson, this is just business. He’s not my--”

“You don’t have to hide anything from me dear,” she assured with a wink. “The ones next door just got married.”

John refused to reply, not wanting to upset her and settled for a simple grin of appreciation. “Good to know.”

“How late will you two be out?”

“No idea. Not too late, it’s just a meeting.” John swallowed; he hoped to find out more about Sherlock as a person, but that wouldn’t make it a date necessarily. Safety first. Right?

“Alright, dear. I’ll fix some dinner for Hamish, don’t worry about a thing. Just make sure to have a good time and text me when you’re on your way home.” She adjusted his collar fondly, patting his cheek with encouragement and walking into the kitchen. “Hamish, would you like some--”

The doorbell rang. John’s stomach sank into his feet, the echo of the high ding rattling inside his brain like an alarm of utter emergency. Giving a small goodbye to his landlady and kissing his son on the forehead, he took his coat and slipped it on like battle armor, preparing for what may or may not lay just outside his front door. John made sure to grab his cane as well as the sales report Sherlock had requested, folding it up and shoving it inside his jean pocket. The soldier took small, cautious steps down the stairs before gripping the door handle and turning it.

John had almost forgotten how well Sherlock could clean up.

Sherlock’s curls seemed to be much more kempt and somehow devilish than John remembered from hours earlier. His black slacks were freshly pressed and his shoes were shined. A purple button-down was partially hidden by a suit jacket, his signature wool coat and that rugged navy scarf. John felt his nausea dissipate.

“Eight o’clock. Right on time.”

“I’m only late if I want to be,” Sherlock replied with a patient smirk. “I’ve hailed a cab, it’s a bit of a walk to the restaurant. I trust you brought the papers?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.”

John padded the folded up papers in his pocket, stepping into the fetched cab and squirming a bit as Sherlock sat beside him. The closeness made him uncomfortable for seemingly every possible reason, none of which were reasons John quite understood. The ride was silent and strange, not more than a few words of small talk exchanged between the two, but even such subtle conversation had eased his tense nerves by the time their destination came into view.

The restaurant, called Angelo’s, was adorned with windows as tall as the ceiling and doors bordered with goldenrod. A dim and almost romantic light shone softly down on the water of the Thames, coursing and waving gently beside it. The soft sound of a piano bled through the swinging doors and the outlines of people, tables and chandeliers were barely visible through the dim glow of the inside. John was starstruck.

“I’m very underdressed,” he muttered in pure disbelief, looking down at his casual outfit and over to Sherlock’s suit. “A warning would have been nice.”

“Nonsense. You look fine.”

“How can a homeless man afford this? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Sherlock smirked and dodged the question. “If we don’t make our reservation, we’ll be rescheduled.” He exited the cab and waved a hand for John to follow, and naturally, the doctor did. “Could you be any more mysterious?”

He grinned. “I’m flattered you think so.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Neither did I.”

The interior of Angelo’s was it’s own unique sight. John felt his jaw drop slightly, eyes scanning hungrily over the antique light fixtures and handmade table covers. A fountain rested in the center of the lobby, the walls were decorated with deep blue, red and gold patterns, and the kitchen had an open wall that allowed guests to see inside. The furniture was made of cherry, cushions of high expense, and John had a feeling that more celebrities and royalty dined in this place than commonwealth.

A booming voice stole John from his thoughts. “Sherlock!” the large man exclaimed, extending a massive hand and clapping the poor man on the shoulder. “I was wondering when I’d see you again. Anything you want, free.”

John was genuinely shocked that Sherlock had any sort of acquaintance, much more from the owner of a celebrity establishment. He watched the two exchange a few polite words and updates, much more content to admire their surroundings and following them to the table when the time had arisen. Angelo sat them down, placing two menus on the table and grinning broadly.

“I’ll bring a candle for you and your date.”

John’s expression changed from wonder to defensive. “Hang on, I’m not his--” Angelo had gone before John’s plea met his ears, leaving the doctor hanging awkwardly on the edge of his unfinished sentence. He pushed out a sigh of mild irritation and averted his eyes to the window, staring out at the water, the dark silhouette of London Bridge looming against the navy sky. The stars twinkled brightly against the horizon and reflected along the water, accompanied by the shine of the restaurant and buildings with city lights. John didn’t know how much longer he could handle the silence, and decided to offer up a question to his employee.

“Do you like it? The bookshop?”

Sherlock paused a moment. “Of course. It’s a very homey place, to say the least. It’s not hard to grasp the basic functions of the store, things that need doing and such. It’s an ample distraction.”

“Distraction. From your...drug problem?” John dared, shuffling awkwardly. “Sorry. That was a little blunt.”

”No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said dismally. “Cocaine, like you said. I’ve been an addict for six years.”

“But you stopped, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “I stopped.”

“Good. Can’t say I’d want someone like that working around my son,” John said with a gentle nod. “You understand, don’t y--”

Angelo interrupted briefly to set a lit candle on the center of the table, flashed the two men a smile of adoration, and promptly walked away once more. Sherlock seemed to be biting back a grin.

_Why don’t people believe me when I say this is business?_ John asked himself, a look of disblief on his face. Sherlock sipped at his wine and didn’t take more than a second to respond to the other’s unspoken thought. 

“Because it isn’t business. Not fully, anyway. You want to know more about me as a person, and rightfully so. And I’m curious to see if my previous deductions about you were correct.”

“Previous...deductions?”

“Yes.” He set the glass down on the table. “You know, the one you got angry about and left me in a diner.”

John couldn’t supress a chuckle. “Yeah, well. Not everyone takes kindly to being ‘deduced’ like that.” He, too, sipped at the red wine, swirling it around in the glass before setting it down. “It was phenomenal, though. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it was phenomenal.”

The conversation was cut as the waiter, dapper and clean-shaven, came to collect their orders and menus. Some pleasant chatter and a few minutes later, John had ordered a steak with a side of mashed potatoes and mushrooms, and Sherlock stayed vigilant with a soup and salad. The waitor left again, leaving them in solitude.

“Did I get it right?” Sherlock asked.

“What?”

“The deduction. Did I get it right?”

John bit his lip and nodded. “...mostly, yeah.”

Sherlock stayed quiet, most likely for an explanation, but it wasn’t how John wanted to start out the night. “How did you get so good at that deducing thing, anyway?”

“Practice,” the man replied. “It’s a trait I’ve always utilized. I can tell anyone’s life story within the past few years just by looking at them.”

“That’s an arrogant way to look at it.”

“Yes. I’m an arrogant man.”

“Quite right.”

Thirty blissful minutes passed, the two men locked in entertaining conversation that kept the both of them pleasantly occupied. John was enchanted by the charm that seemed to seep from Sherlock’s pores, so much so that it made him continue the conversation with more of a driving, curious force. A desrie to  know him. He wasn’t sure if the feeling was reciprocated but he’d never heard Sherlock say so much in one day, let alone in a half hour, and John considered that a success. Their talk was cut as the waiter brought their ordered food, setting it before them and leaving once more.

“Bloody hell,” John grinned, the bite of steak bursting with flavor and melting tenderly in his mouth. “This. Is. Wonderful.” 

“Best free food around,” Sherlock agreed with a playful grin, taking a small bite of his salad. They ate and drank, saying little things here and there about the restaurant and it’s food and service before John struck up the depth of a conversation again.

“You didn’t answer my question from earlier, you know.”

“Mm?”

“How can you afford a place like this? I mean, I get that it’s free, sort of. I guess I’m just waiting for an explanation.” John took a bite and listened.

“I’m a friend of the owner. I also have a very rich family. I remain homeless because I don’t wish to waste money on a flat when I live comfortably the way I do.”

“The way you do? How’s that?”

Sherlock leaned forward on his elbows, looking up from his food and locking John’s eyes. “I break into people’s flats, use their showers, sleep in their beds while they’re off on holiday. They never know I was there, save for the books, your books, that I leave them. No one seems to have books in their homes anymore, it’s rather distressing. It makes for a nice apology.”

John couldn’t help the bubbling laughter that built inside him and burst, and before he could think he was covering his mouth and laughing harder than the soft atmosphere deemed appropriate. “Let me get this straight,” he huffed. “You break into homes and leave the owners books as an apology? Something tells me that’s more of a ‘get more knowledge’ vendetta than an ‘I’m sorry’.”

Sherlock’s laugh made John weak. “I suppose.”

“You know...” he began, setting his knife and fork on his plate. “If you’d like, I can offer you a job.”

The mood had gone from joking to serious. “...what?”

“Well, you seem to like the shop enough. I could use the extra hands and I think you’ve paid off what you stole.”

“You...” He frowned. “You want me to stick around?”

“Of course,” John replied, feeling a pity in his heart that he couldn’t detain. “You could use the money to get your own place, or use your own wealth or whatever. Hamish likes having you around, he admires you and I think you’d be a good influence on him. You were helping him read the other day, that means something to me.” John gave a nervous chuckle and sat back in his seat, running his fingers through his sandy hair. “I guess I’m  asking you to stay, really.”

Sherlock looked particularly distressed by John’s confession. He set down his fork and rested his hands in his lap, staring down at the table, lost in his own mind. John’s smile turned sour, desperate to know what he was thinking but too much of a gentleman to ask. Was that water in his eyes?

“Yes,” Sherlock spoke quietly after a few minutes. He cleared his throat, straightening his back and picked up his fork again. “Yes,” he said in a stronger tone. “I accept your offer.”

John, still worried, felt his smile return. “Good. Hamish will be beside himself,” he noted happily, and the two ran off with a new topic, and one after that, and one after that. Politics, weather, real estate, America, the war, furniture, movies. John was impressed with Sherlock’s knowledge and Sherlock was fascinated by John’s personality. An hour passed, then two, then three. John didn’t mind that Sherlock was avoiding personal talk; the evening was progressing swimmingly without the messiness of deep issues. He was  _enjoying_ himself, they both were. 

It scared John, what could become of it.

When the clock read eleven, Angelo approached the table wearing a suggestive smirk. “We closed an hour ago, Sherlock.”

John felt his cheeks grow warm.

“Sorry, Angelo. We’ll leave now. Thank you for the food.”

“Don’t worry about it!” the big man beamed in response, patting both Sherlock and John’s shoulders before stepping away.

“Ready when you are, John.”

**  
**

* * *

**  
**

The crisp, cool night air had them both huddled up in their coats, walking lazily along the side streets. Sherlock raised his hand to hail a cab, frowning at each unsuccessful attempt. “No one seems to be available,” he grimaced.

“Hey,” John perked. “Why don’t we walk?”

“What?”

“It’s not that far, I’m sure there’s some shortcuts we could take.”

Sherlock mulled over the idea before agreeing. The two walked side by side, the sound of cars and winter winds barely audible as they tuned in to each other.

“So...why cocaine?”

Sherlock squared his shoulders as if preparing for the depth of the talk this would become. “It helps me think. My brain is like an engine, always running as fast as it can, and when it slows I need to...fill it up with gas, if you will.”

“Makes sense. What made you start? If you don’t mind me asking--”

“No, no,” Sherlock replied with a knowing nod. “You want to make sure I’m not a psychotic drug dealer that works in your shop and entertains your son. I don’t mind.” He put his hands in his pockets, continuing to walk, averting John’s eyes. “I don’t know how to explain it in a way you would understand. I needed to keep my mind busy. It helped.”

“At what cost, though?”

Sherlock grinned painfully. “Too much.”

A line had been drawn, so obvious John could see it in the air. He knew he’d crossed that line, gone too far, the stab of guilt piercing him through Sherlock’s downcast eyes. He’d shown more of himself than John ever thought possible. The favor had to be returned.

“Your deduction,” he began, rubbing his arms to warm himself up. “It was accurate. Too accurate. That’s why I left you there in the diner, honestly. I’d never really confronted the reality of all this and having a stranger throw it in my face like that was too much for me to handle.”

Sherlock frowned. “I...apologize.”

“No, don’t. It was good. It was good for me, Sherlock,” John forced. “You were right about all of it. Mary and I were happy for the first couple years of our marriage, and then it all fell apart. We didn’t love each other anymore, the fights were a daily nightmare, and we were going to split up until she found out she was three months pregnant without even knowing. We made a deal to try and rekindle whatever we’d lost, which was everything, and it had been working little by little...” John’s throat tightened and he had to stop walking in order to regain himself. Sherlock had stopped too, lips parted and eyes wide with observation.

“You know what the worst part is...?” John muttered, barely keeping his seams together. “I wasn’t in love with my wife when she died. She’d just given birth to Hamish, and...she wouldn’t stop bleeding...and I wasn’t in love with her.” He blinked back tears, sniffling a bit and turning away in shameful embarrassment. “God, sorry. That was too much information.”

“I disagree,” Sherlock said softly, taking a step closer to John’s cringing form. “You love her still. Maybe not  in love, I don’t know the difference, but you do love her. You only just took your wedding ring off and you’re moved to tears in the memory of her. Simple deduction.” He shrugged a bit, looking away from John and off into the city street. “I imagine that love has too many routes for you to choose just one to define it.”

John felt his heart soften. Cocaine addict? Maybe. Asperger’s? Possibly. Friend? Comforter? Where was this coming from, and why was he so bloody thankful for it?

“Thank you,” John muttered, collecting himself at last and clearing his throat. “That...you’re right. That was then, this is now. Hamish is my only worry.”

“You should get home to him.”

“Yeah. I should.”

The rest of the walk was laced with cheerful discussion and light hearted subjects to contrast the confessions of earlier. By the time they reached Baker Street, John was exhausted and ready to fall over, content to sleep on the concrete for what it was worth.

“Listen. Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night here?” John asked, trying not to be distracted by the light hitting Sherlock’s face in all the right angles. “Not victimize some poor bastard? I have a couch.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, a smirk on his face. “I’d rather not trouble you.” He stepped off and began walking away, hands in his pockets. “Besides, if it comes down to it, I know a nice little bookshop around the corner that’ll suit me just fine.”

John’s smile was unbreakable. Warmth encased him in a happy bliss, a mixture of emotions he hadn’t felt in a long while, and when John laid his head to rest no nightmares came to haunt him.


	4. Pigeons

John awoke the next morning to the loud buzz of his phone. He rolled over groggily, rubbing his eyes in irritation and reading the text.

_You left your cane at Angelo’s last night. SH_

He squinted in disbelief. How the hell had he made a two hour walk without his cane?

_What? Where is it now?_

_I have it. Angelo brought it to me this morning. SH_

Figures. John thought about a few of Sherlock’s mind tricks from the night before, coming to a well-educated conclusion.

_You knew, didn’t you. You knew I would forget it._

_Your limp is psychosomatic, John, of course I knew. SH_

_Right_.

A lazy groan gurgled from his throat. John rubbed his face and set the phone back on his nightstand, laxing his shoulders and blinking twice. The casuality of his and Sherlock’s situation was becoming concerningly familiar, and he wasn’t sure how much more of the painful confusion he could take.

Painful? No.  Wanted.

Sherlock had made him happy, that much was true. The night at Angelo’s had left John replenished and refreshed, stress lowering with the jazzy octaves of the piano music. It was a task not even Mike could pull off, or Harry or Sarah or anyone else John was acquainted with. Sherlock was his own unique force, a friend in a city of strangers, and John had never been so afraid to be thankful.

A soft knock came at his door. John knew who it was, grinning a bit and pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Come in, Hamish.”

The little boy crept into his father’s room as he always did, a sort of “wake up call” as John was known to fall back asleep after his alarm rang. He crawled up on the bed and snuggled up beside his father, head resting on his chest. John brushed his hand through Hamish’s hair subconsciously and rested back against the headboard.

“You have school today.”

“I know. I don’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

“I like being in the store with you and Mister Sherlock. He’s nice. I like him.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Can we keep him?”

John burst out a laugh. “He’s not a pet, Hamish. But yes. He wants to stay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We talked about it last night.”

“Did you kiss?” Hamish asked, sitting up and looking to his father with bright and expectant eyes. John’s body froze; he had to replay the question in his mind before he fully understood it.

“What?!”

“Did you smooch him daddy?”  


“No! What’re you--”

“MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH!” The child proceeded to make kissy lips at his father, laughing between the pucker of his lips and John was defenseless not to laugh with him.

“Hamish, where did you even--no, I didn’t  smooch him,” he confessed, poking his son in the side and making him squeal. “You’re a troublemaker, you are.”

Hamish broke into a string of little giggles, crawling out of John’s embrace and standing upright on the floor. He yanked and pulled off John’s blankets, taking his hands, short attention span having it’s dues. “Up, daddy. I’m hungry.”

“Alright,  _alright_ . Pushy pushy.”

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed, padding into the living room and flipping on the kitchen lights. Hamish let go of his hand and opened the silverware drawer to the left of the sink, taking two spoons in his tiny hands and pulling over a chair to stand on. Getting access to the upper cabinets was something Hamish had taught himself how to do, and though John was always careful to watch him he never discouraged his son from finding clever ways around inconvenient boundaries. John retrieved the milk from the fridge and took note of the need to buy more, reaching up to grab the box of cereal and father and son met at the dining table with all the necessities for breakfast. Hamish had set their places and John prepared the meal. It was routine, it was normal, and somehow it broke the father’s heart more and more with each time it happened.

If John Watson could have one wish in the world, it would be to make Hamish’s life as comfortable and happy as it could possibly be. The threat of finances and extended hours at work left him with a parental heartache and provided the reminder that they were too poor for such a life to be a reality. As he watched Hamish take slow bites, the stab in his chest grew tighter.

“I love you, Hamish.”

“I love you too, daddy.”

John expectedly finished his breakfast before Hamish. The father smoothed his son’s hair from his face and smiled warmly, giving him a kiss on the forehead and a pat on the back. “Keep eating and get dressed when you’re done, I’ll be in the shower.”

“Okay. Have fun!”

He chuckled in reply. Pushing himself up from the table and placing his bowl and spoon in the sink, John stepped back into his bedroom to gather some clothes for the day and stepped dismally into the old, pathetic excuse for a bathroom.

God, he needed to fix the place up. Lack of money was his only obstacle. The sink liked to leak every so often, the shower never obeyed John’s request for hot water and the lights flickered obnoxiously. There was a ridiculously abundant amount of little problems in John’s life that he was powerless to repair, and it bothered him to the core knowing so much needed to be done with no means to accomplish them. Taking a shower didn’t do much to ease him, getting dressed and tying up his shoes with frustration after shaving and brushing his teeth. The doctor left his bedroom shortly after to find Hamish sitting on the couch, backpack on and dressed for the day, and John melted in a puddle of proud parent and insufficient father.

“Ready to walk?”

“Mhm! Can I ride on your shoulders, daddy?”

“Only if you’re careful.”

Hamish’s face lit up. John felt all the problems he’d been focusing on fall back to a place of insignificance; all that mattered was Hamish, and if that meant flickering bathroom lights and cold showers so he could afford to buy his son a new pair of shoes, so be it. Upon leaving the flat, John knelt down to the concrete so Hamish could swing his legs around his father’s neck, and up he went.

“Whee!~”

“How’s the weather up there?” the father asked playfully, a massive load suddenly lifted as he began their walk.

Hamish thought for a moment. “It’s really sunny. And there’re birds flying next to my head.”

“Really?!” John exaggerated, walking down the street and turning from Baker to Hampstead. “How many birds do you see?”

“A lot. One of them just pooped on you.”

“Ahh, blast. Tell those birds that wasn’t very nice, yeah?”

“Hehe~!”

John continued to walk cane-less, son on his shoulders, feeling positively liberated. The breeze was cool and comfortable, offering a gentle massage to his mind. He hadn’t needed his cane at all, his therapist had been right, but Sherlock had come and fixed something unfixable, something in John’s life that was broken and needed repairs. He solved a problem, had solved so many problems...

“Daddy?” Hamish asked, softly patting the top of John’s head to the beat of the tune he was humming.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you have your walking stick?”

“Sherlock took it. I don’t need it anymore.”

“Really?!”

The excitement in Hamish’s voice made John weak with guilt. How long ago had Hamish taken notice of his limp and what it meant? “...really really.”

“Yaay!” the boy shouted, lifting his hands in the air. “I don’t like that thing. Now you can walk normal like me!”

His innocence astounded John, even still, so much he was nearly envious. “Yes, now I can walk normal like you,” he said lowly, turning on to Varndell, then to Stanhope, and finally to Park Village.

“School!” Hamish exclaimed.

“I thought you didn’t want to go?”

“I don’t, but I like Miss Lila and Miss Shira. They’re really weird and nice.”

“Pff. Yeah, I guess they are. Ready?”

“Yep.”

John stopped just in front of the iron fence, reaching up and holding his son’s sides. He gave a 3 2 1 countdown before lifting the boy off his shoulders and setting him on his feet. The good soldier couldn’t break the parental habit of brushing Hamish’s hair with his fingers and dusting off his shirt, making sure his shoes were tied and that his backpack remained zipped. “There we go. All ready.”

“Mhm. Love you daddy.”

“You too. Go have fun.”

“Okay!”

Father and son embraced briefly before the younger Watson dashed through the gate of his school, meeting with the other children and heading into the reception classroom.

No matter how many problems he had in life, John knew he would always remain a proud father to a wonderful son.

A relaxing day at the shop only helped to strengthen John’s already positive mood. Customers came in and out, and Sherlock showed them to the sections they desired without so much as an inquiry to their favorite genre. John was as baffled as he was impressed, watching Sherlock assist customers, never misplacing a guess, and as the lunch hour rush left the enchanting old shop, John saw smiles and nods of approval, everyone leaving with a book in their hand.

“So let me get this straight,” John began as the last customer left the store. “You can take one look at a person and tell what books they like?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock offered a casual shrug of his shoulders. “It’s an easy task, perhaps I can teach you.”

“That woman looked like a romance enjoyer to me, and in the blink of an eye you labeled her as science fiction.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“Clearly.”

John grabbed a pile of books from the return rack, stepping over to the wobbly ladder and climbing carefully up to the top shelf. “What is it that set her apart? And can you bring the rack over here while you explain?”

Sherlock smirked a bit and nodded, wheeling over the cart and passing books up to the soldier as he spoke. “The woman had sunglasses on top of her head, though the weather outside is overcast. She doesn’t get outside much. There were bags under her eyes and her shoes were secondhand, conclusion, she doesn’t care much about fashion and she stays inside most days, blogging or reading or watching telly. Science fiction or fantasy. I went with the former because she was wearing a scarf that had small Star Fleet emblems on it.”

“...oh.” John could feel the blood rushing to his face, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Why didn’t I notice that?”

“All in time.”

With the returns finished John began to descend the ladder, opening his mouth to speak when his foot caught on one of the unstable steps. It was slow motion from then on, reaching his hands out to catch himself on one of the shelves which would undoubtedly fall over and cause a domino effect, but the security of strong arms blue eyes stopped his panic. Sherlock’s face was a mere inch from his, eyes wide and fearful, lips on the verge of a touch. The world stopped and nothing was audible, save for the sound of their quick breaths mingling together and the heartbeats in unison, pounding in their heads and signaling the inevitable. John’s hands rested on Sherlock’s chest in an awkward position of half-falling, but neither of them could bother to move, captured in the trap that was everything dangerous and everything desirable.

It was all John could do to pull away, reminding himself of who he was and who he wasn’t, clearing his throat and offering a small “thank you” before stepping off the ladder. Sherlock remained frozen in place, standing still as if he’d been shocked with taser, and John was about to ask whether or not he was alright until the ring of the open shop door snapped them both from the moment.

“Uh...hello?” John called, trying to collect himself.

The little body of Hamish Watson trotted around the shelf corner. “Hi daddy!”

A sigh of relief flooded out of him at the sight of his son, grateful that a customer hadn’t walked in and seen him flustered, barely able to speak. “Hey, buddy. Where’s Mrs. Hudson?”

“She went to the cafe.”

“Right, yeah...”

“Hi Sherlock,” Hamish beamed at the taller man.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied gravely.

In a desperate attempt to ease the tension and pretend like nothing happened, John smiled back to Sherlock and squared his shoulders, patting his son on the head. He opened his mouth to speak until the ring of his phone interrupted him, thankfully, and John looked to Sherlock in a silent ask to watch Hamish while he took the call, to which the man nodded. Stepping quickly out of the room, John walked out the back door and checked the caller ID.

_Harry Watson._

Furrowing his brows, John answered and leaned back against the brick wall. “Hello?”

“Hey, little brother!” Harry’s voice chimed, happy and cheerful. The sound of her made John smile, especially hearing her with such an uplifted spirit. “How’re you doing?”

“Pretty good. Hamish just got home from school, I’ll have to thank Mrs. Hudson for picking him up.”

“Ahh. I love that boy, I bet he’s grown so much since I last laid eyes on him.”

“Yeah, he seems to get bigger every day. It’s a blessing and a curse, that.”

“I can imagine.” Harry drew in a breath, preparing to say something big, John knew.

“Spill, Harry.”

“Clara and I are getting married.”

John nearly let go of his phone, jaw dropping as a gasp escaped. “What?!”

“I knowww!” she squealed. “We’re getting married, John! Married! We set the date for the twenty-seventh of August”

“Twenty-seven August?” John replied painfully; a mere three days after Hamish’s birthday, and consequently, the anniversary of Mary’s death. “That’s...that’s wonderful, Harry. Congratulations.”

“I know the date is a problem for you,” she admitted with a sigh, “but I want you to know that it’s only so close because of Clara. Anything to please the lady, you know. It’s the day we met.”

“I understand, you don’t have to explain yourself. Especially when it comes to your wedding.”

“Will you be my best man?”

He grinned. “Of course, Harry, I’d be offended if I wasn’t.”

“Good. You’ll be there, then?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I gotta go, Sherlock is in the store with Hamish and I have to finish some things before I close toni--”

“Sherlock? Who?”

John pushed out a sigh. “Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. I hired him to help me around the store, he’s...well, he’s been a big help.”

“Invite him too.”

“Wha--”

“No argues, baby brother! I’ll call you later, love you. Kiss that boy for me, will ya!”

“I--” It was no use to argue with her. “Yes, fine, alright. Congrats again. Talk to you later.”

He hung up the phone, mulling over the information in his mind and beating himself up for not being more supportive. Harry and Clara were mad for each other, had been for years, but knowing how hard it would be to watch them marry days after the anniversary of his wife’s death made him nervous, as selfish as that was. Chasing away the thoughts and forcing himself back to the quite comfortable present, John walked back into the bookshop and called for his son.

“Daddy!” Hamish chimed, glowing with excitement. “Can we go to the park with Sherlock? _Pleeeaaaaase?_ ” He took Sherlock’s hand, warranting that same frozen expression from the near-kiss earlier that day. “For dinner! Those sausages are in that little cart, we can get some of those!”

“Hot dogs, Hamish.” John looked up to his friend, biting his lip before turning back to his son. “Did you ask Sherlock?”

“He said to ask you~” the boy giggled.

John entertained the idea, not sure he wanted to be closer to Sherlock but completely powerless to pry away. “Alright, but only after we close, and only if you do really good on the dusting.”

He’d had never seen a boy scramble so fast for a featherduster. As the doctor met Sherlock’s troubled eyes, he offered a grin of appreciation before returning to his work and avoiding the event that preyed mercilessly on their minds.

  


* * *

  


The sun dipped just above the city skyline, street lights illuminated and reflecting off the water. Hamish giggled and threw more crumbs at the gathering pigeons, making a trail and attempting to direct them to eat from his hand. John watched from his spot on a bench a few yards away, next to Sherlock, whose hands were folded politely in his lap and eyes resting on the horizon.

“He’s so playful,” John commented fondly, watching the boy laugh and reach in his pocket for more bread. “Always, always playful. So much energy, and I’m terrified that I’m not encouraging him enough.”

“You’re doing fine, from my point of view. But I’m no expert on raising children.”

“The saying goes that we do what our parents did, but it’s hard when there’s only one of me.” He turned to look at Sherlock, giving him a warm and genuine smile. “Thank you, by the way. That means a lot, expert or no.”

The smile was reciprocated. “It’ll become easier over time, I imagine. I’ve never had any interest in children myself.”

“Why not?”

“I prefer to mentor. Being a father requires a partner, which I do not have or want. I’d be an awful father too, if your little saying about parenting is any sort of reliable reference.”

“I think you’d be a fine father,” John disagreed, turning back to his son. “You’re wonderful with Hamish. You can be a mentor and a dad, it’s not impossible. You deserve someone to be happy with.”

Sherlock parted his lips to reply, coming up with nothing. John didn’t want to continue with a topic in which there was obvious discomfort, so he refrained. The two sat in silence for a few minutes longer, watching Hamish try and fail to please the flock of birds. It was clear the boy was getting upset.

“You know...” John spoke lowly, breathing out through his nose. “I’ve never seen Hamish so reactive to another person besides me, ever. He’s a very shy boy around new people, but you...you made him open up, like you’ve been friends for ages. I don’t know if it means anything to you, but--thank you.”

Sherlock paused for a moment and rose from the bench without saying a word, burying his hands in his pockets until he reached Hamish’s side. John watched as the taller man knelt down, taking the bread crumbs from the child and showing him how to lead the birds into his bread-filled palm. His elegant hand rested on the child’s back, staying still, and John felt himself melt into the breeze as Hamish’s giggle reached his ears, a flock of pigeons eating from his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reception = Kindergarten but British heh
> 
> Okay so since I'm a prude, I used actual places (assuming that Baker St. in the Sherlockverse is actually Gower St, where they film). Hamish's school is Christ Church C of E, and it's right across the street from Regent's park. You can get a visual reference [here](http://media.tumblr.com/f814aa0f8295af283ab92e3c5cbcac80/tumblr_inline_mm6ykwRecI1qz4rgp.jpg) and their website is [here](http://www.cchurchnw1.camden.sch.uk/) omfg i'm such a nerd help. If you want visuals for the park they went to, just google Regent's Park and die because it's the best place ever
> 
> Also here is a visual for [Mary](http://jdalbeauty.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/blondgreen.jpg). None for Hamish yet because I'm picky.
> 
> (I don't know this woman and the picture is temporary until I get some fanart yes hello my name is Natalie and I like it when people show me how they see characters but I also love fanart drawn for me bye)


	5. Sonnet 116

The pinks and oranges of a lazy sunset were painted later and later with the passage of time. Spring rolled gracefully into summer, April and May into June and July. The successes of the shop were matched by the growth of John as a friend and a father, but the thoughts that previously plagued him seemed to augment and threaten. Each day that ended brought more and more dread for the addled shop owner, a man who looked at his employee and each time questioned where exactly the boundaries were laid. Sherlock Holmes was a man of everything and nothing, an open book and a complete enigma. John wanted to pick him apart and know all there was to know, see all there was to see, and the way Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye told John that they suffered in silence together. There was nothing more painful than two men afraid to make a move when the chemistry was thick and the obstacles were overestimated.

Deep in his heart, John was grateful for the hesitation Sherlock displayed. Even though Mary had been absent for many years, the thought of kissing or touching Sherlock (a thought he’d had many times) felt wrong, like he was cheating on or disgracing her. The guilt remained engraved into his being, a blade in a place where it didn’t belong, though it never stopped him from dabbling in the acceptable. John and Sherlock had gotten into the habit of taking a day out of the week, every Sunday night, to meet and go over the numbers.

Naturally, numbers were never the subject of their outings.

They started at Angelo’s for the first few weeks, meeting in the same place they did on their first night out, but with the grow of their friendship and the depth of their knowledge of each other, such a place seemed too repetitive and, eventually, boring. They walked Regent’s Park, along the streets, visited various cafes and took Hamish for a day out when the fair came around. The fear John had in being nearer to Sherlock was both present and false; being Sherlock’s friend was one thing, but becoming what he wanted was something else entirely. 

Sherlock himself had become a distraction. John had never taken an interest in men before, never touched one, kissed one, but the curve of Sherlock’s neck and the tone of his voice, the roughness of his hands and those dark, untameable curls begged John to be all over him in a matter of seconds with each subtle look.

But most importantly, it was the way Sherlock treated Hamish that attracted him the most. 

John’s son positively adored him. He was constantly in the taller man’s shadow, asking him questions and learning from his knowledge. The two had taken upon themselves the task of sorting the books in alphabetical order, cataloguing the shop and teaching Hamish to be comfortable with letters all in one time period. The boy’s teacher had phoned John on a number of occasions, stating how impressed she was with Hamish’s improvement both academically and socially. The progress was evident in everything he did, from the words he chose when speaking to others, to the mannerisms in which he went about daily activities. He was growing up, much from Sherlock’s teaching, and John couldn’t help a wonderful feeling of relief.

Hamish had grown remarkably, to John’s amazement, but the turn of the week marked him as six years old and Mary as six years gone. It was bittersweet and complicated; Harry had offered to take Hamish for the night, to which John and the boy happily agreed. No doubt John would be alone as he wanted to be, thinking and mourning in a state that he didn’t want Hamish to see him in. A few glasses of whiskey and a photo of Mary would be his only company. The soldier tried his best to push the thoughts from his mind, knowing the event was still days away, stacking a pile of papers and waiting for Sherlock to return from the back room.

“Did you see this?” John asked, handing Sherlock a copy of London Weekly. “Page seven.”

Sherlock opened the paper with his slender hands, scanning with his eyes before giving a small smirk. “‘Genius Helps Run Watson’s; Tell Your Genre in Just One Look’. Awfully long title, boring. I find their lack of creativity painful.” He closed the news and handed it back to John, though the grin of pride wasn’t invisible to his friend. “It’ll bring in business, which is good.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Don’t thank me too much,” Sherlock replied. “I’m simply doing what I do best. Get your laptop ready, we should get back to cataloguing.” The taller man looked towards the spiral stairs as he began to approach them, halted by the absence of following footsteps. He turned to look back at the doctor and noticed he was still frozen in his seat, triggered by the idea and unable to tame his mind. The apprehension in John made his muscles tense within seconds, a shaky breath escaping his lips. Sherlock picked up on the sudden shift in his mood and his expression softened as he extended a hand to his friend. “You won’t be alone, John. It’s just a section.”

“Not any section.  Her section.”

“Just books for sale.”

Sherlock was right, and John wasn’t a fool, but that didn’t help to soothe the anxiety he felt from even looking at the iron staircase leading up to the pool of unwanted reminders. He gave the other a once-over before offering a doleful nod, taking that rough, gracious hand in his and rising to his feet. “...yeah, okay. Be up in a second.”

“Alright.”

John watched as Sherlock ascended the stairs, light-footed and careful. He sat for a moment and pondered what the section meant, what it had been and how much time had passed since he’d given the area any significant amount of thought. The lump in his throat grew involuntarily tighter. There was no way out of this, not if the cataloguing was to be finished, then he could put it behind him and never venture upwards again. John reached forward and grabbed his laptop, holding it at his side and taking that first, anxious step. The more his legs moved the more his body yearned to turn and make a run for it, escaping the reminiscent hold that the sight of Mary’s favorite place forced him in. _It’s just a section, John,_ he repeated in his mind.  _Just books for sale_. Making himself catch a whim of sanity, he stepped over the threshold and set the computer on a side table, meeting the eyes of his friend standing near a dusty shelf.

Perfect hands gripped the spine of one of many Shakespearean works, flipping through the pages with grace before stopping abruptly, a grin on his lips, which parted and allowed a cello voice of deep, baritone velvet to break through.

_“Let me not to the marriage of true minds_  
 _Admit impediments. Love is not love_  
 _Which alters when it alteration finds,_  
 _Or bends with the remover to remove:_  
 _O no, it is an ever-fixed mark_  
 _That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_  
 _It is the star to every wandering bark,_  
 _Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._  
 _Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_  
 _Within his bending sickle's compass come:_  
 _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_  
 _But bears it out even to the edge of doom._  
 _If this be error and upon me proved,_  
           I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”

The poem ended too soon and John was over, completely, irrevocably over. Such a dark chocolate voice left him weak in the knees, senses flushing with the flow of the words and the manner in which they left his mouth. John’s nerves had been on high alert since the second he’d stepped foot on the staircase and the sound alone of Sherlock’s voice had victimized them to the point of crisis, a rush of sudden heedless desires that he couldn’t arrest or contain. The processes linking thoughts to actions malfunctioned and broke under the echo of Shakespeare, leaving him defenseless and vulnerable. He didn’t think as his legs moved him forward, arm extending to take the book from Sherlock’s unexpecting hands. The soldier stared into those blue eyes and lost himself several times over, pressing their lips together with little to no hesitation and suffering under its merciless relief. 

Shockwaves shot violently down John’s spine and continued to the soles of his feet, reverberating through the hardwood up through the walls around them. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, stepping back but refusing to pull away. Seconds passed, and though awkward at first they melted into each other as their bodies wanted to, needed to, lips dancing slowly together in a pace they were both comfortable with. John lifted his hands to rest on Sherlock’s upper arms and the soldier felt those irresistible fingers grip the sides of his neck, fingers curling gently around the skin. They were trapped, willingly captured in each other’s presence and neither of them daring to break free. The beat of their kiss quickened, hold on each other tightening, and it was the second that John felt Sherlock’s tongue on his lips that the ever-present darkness returned.

“Mm--no,” he protested, pushing Sherlock back at arm’s length, terror heavy in his eyes and guilt at the wounded expression on the other’s face. “I...” Were there words? “Sherlock...God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve...” He stopped himself from making an even worse decision, stepping carefully away from Sherlock and escaping down the iron steps, snatching his coat from the hanger, mortified. He didn’t say anything to Hamish, confident Sherlock would look after him; a breath of fresh air was what he needed, some time away, someone to talk to, vent to. The fresh air of the outside didn’t offer him the comfort he sought. Fumbling in his pocket for his phone, John retrieved it quickly with trembling hands and input Harry’s number.

“John?”

“Harry. Speedy’s in ten.”

“O-okay, what’s--”

“I’ll talk about it when we get there.”

“Okay, sure. Be careful?”

“Yeah.”

John hung up the phone and shoved it back in his pocket, running to catch up with a taxi and stumble inside.

**  
**

* * *

**  
**

“Thanks for meeting me,” John said stiffly, sitting down in his seat across from his confused sister. “I know you have wedding stuff to do, I shouldn’t be taking your time like this.”

“What?” Harry scoffed, pulling her hair back and tying it in a bun. “Nonsense, Johnny. You know I’ll always make time for you no matter what, I told you that a long time ago and it’s still true.” Brother and sister sat on the patio of John’s favorite little cafe, a large umbrella protecting them from the setting sun. When the waiter came round, the older Watson ordered a mojito and some nachos, and John simply requested some tea and a plate of hot wings. Bad for indigestion, but nothing other than his plight mattered to him. As the conversations were struck, John used his skillful evasion tactics to avoid the reason why he called her there, but when their food arrived Harry directly addressed it, unavoidable as it was. “So what’s this about, anyway? You sounded really upset on the phone.”

John pushed out a sigh, taking a sip of his tea and setting it back on the table. He knew he’d have to tell her eventually, tell someone, before he burst at the seams and fell victim to a breakdown. “I kissed Sherlock.”

“Yay!” Harry squealed immediately, reaching across the table to take John’s hand. “I’m so proud of you, John, I think I might cry~”

“What? No, it wasn’t a good thing!” John protested, snatching his hand free. “I can’t do that to Hamish, to Sherlock, not with Mary, not with everything that could happen, not when--”

“John.” Harry was insistent, meeting his eyes in the sisterly and authoritative manner that left John powerless. “Stop it. You deserve to be happy. Does Sherlock make you happy?”

“...yes.”

“Did you like kissing him?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “More than I can say.”

“Do you want to fuck his brains out?”

“Harry!”

“It’s an important question!” she defended. “If you don’t want to fuck him  hard against those bookshelves, what’s the point?!”

John leaned in close to her, completely unnerved by the heads that had turned to their direction. “We’re in public.”

“And you’re in denial.”

He pushed himself back, rubbing his face and groaning under the stress. “I don’t know what to do, Harry. I think I ruined things with him, I just pushed him away and walked out like a child.”

“God, you’re such an idiot,” Harry complained, cutting John off before he could reply. “You left him with your son. You trust him. You snogged him in Mary’s section, clearly you want him, you weren’t thinking about her when it happened. I’ve seen the way you are with him, the way you talk about him, you’re mad for that Sherlock Holmes and he’s mad for you. Whenever I’m around you two I’m choking on the tension. Can you please just fuck already?”

“God, I forget how blunt you can be.”

“I’m being myself,” she corrected, a small smirk on her face, “and being myself won me a bride. It could win you a groom.”

“But...” he frowned. “I’m not even gay. Not even remotely attracted to men, how would I--you know?”

“Trust me honey,” she said with a laugh, sitting back in her chair and sipping at her drink. “Everyone’s a little bit gay. If you’re wondering how to make him scream, watch some porn, that’ll--”

“Jesus,” John nearly laughed, hiding his face from the judgmental onlookers and laughing under his breath. “How Clara puts up with you, I’ll never know.”

“You did it for eighteen years, Johnny.” She looked at him fondly before giving a high chuckle, though quickly returning to seriousness. “My point is, you need to let go of Mary. You two were perfect and then you were poison, and now that she’s gone you’re clinging to some form of happiness that was short-lived and didn’t last. You need to give Sherlock and yourself a chance, for both your sakes. This could be what you’ve been waiting for, John, and I’m not going to watch you chase it away.”

John sat in the realization of his transgressions, still on the fence, swirling the tea in his cup and lost in his troubled mind. 

**  
**

* * *

**  
**

“John?”

The doctor snapped up from his sleeping position, eyes blinking lazily. “Wha? Mm...something wrong...?”

“You fell asleep again,” Sarah informed him, looking at the clock. “It’s eleven, your shift ends in an hour. Why don’t you go home?”

“No,” John replied with a rub of his face and a long sigh. “That’s unprofessional.”

“I think I can make an exception for you.” She pulled up a chair and sat in front of his desk, folding her hands over the oak and leaning a bit forward. “I know you want to talk about it, too. You need help. I’m not in idiot. I’ve been your friend for nearly ten years, I know the signs.”

John groaned, resting his elbows on the table in defeat. “God, Sarah. I think I’m falling in love with my employee.”

“So?” she replied with a raised brow. “Is that a bad thing? Don’t you deserve to be happy?”

“He’s a man, Sarah. A tall, dark-haired, gorgeous and intelligent man. I can’t get him out of my bloody mind! I kissed him today and then bailed right after. Went to dinner with Harry, came back, and he’d closed the shop, taken Hamish home and left. I might have ruined it all before I even gave it a chance to start, but he still took care of me anyway.”

Sarah’s face softened. John looked at her in bewilderment as she began to laugh. “John Watson,” she huffed, smiling brightly. “You git. It doesn’t matter that he’s a man, right? Unless it bothers you, which obviously it doesn’t if you snogged him of your own will. This is Sherlock? The guy you can’t stop blabbing about? The best thing that ever happened to you and Hamish, as you said yourself?”

John felt his jaw clench, giving Sarah a brief nod.

“Right. So. Off you go, then.” She stood from her seat, beaming down at a confused John. “You don’t work again until just before Harry’s wedding. You need happiness John. I’ll fire you if you don’t give that man a chance.”

“Thanks, Sarah. Really.” The doctor stood from his seat, a small smile on his face through confliction was still rampant. “It’s something to think about, I guess.”

“I  _will_ fire you,” she grinned, opening his office door. “Tell Hamish I said hello.”

“I always do.”

**  
**

* * *

**  
**

The cool summer breeze calmed his thoughts, wrapping him gracefully in a much needed comfort. John took a few moments to appreciate the stars, twinkling and bright in their nature before stepping through the door of 221B and hanging up his coat. The more he thought about the mess he’d gotten himself into, the more he wanted to ignore that anything had happened at all. He pulled out his phone and checked for a text from Sherlock and finding nothing; a good sign and a bad one.

John climbed the stairs and pushed out a long and exhausted sigh, pausing for a brief moment to think before his eyes focused on the scene before him. Both Hamish and Mrs. Hudson were asleep on the sofa, the boy with his head rested in her lap. The telly was playing some late night talk show at a low volume. John smiled fondly and approached with caution, not wanting to alarm them.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asked softly, as not to startle her. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Hudson? I’m home.”

Her eyes slowly opened. “Mmm? Oh, John,” she groaned, giving a small yawn and patting Hamish on the head. “Poor little man was worried sick about you. That Sherlock sure is a nice one.”

“Yeah,” John replied, crouching down to Hamish’s eye level and curling the boy’s hair behind his ear. “He is.”

“You should have him over for dinner sometime, you know. I’d make a nice roast, new recipe and all that, with a side of potatoes and--”

“I’ll think about it,” John cut her off, not wanting to think about Sherlock anymore for the rest of the night. He gingerly scooped his son up in his arms, grinning as Hamish snuggled in the embrace. “Thanks for watching him, I appreciate it.”

“Any time, dear.”

John held Hamish a bit closer, walking up the steps to the boy’s room and lightly kicking open the door. He managed to pull the string on the blue lamp to light up the room, and he felt Hamish squirm but remain asleep. The father pulled back the Finding Nemo blanket and set the boy tenderly in his bed, covering him up and sitting on the edge of the mattress. Hamish rolled and blinked his eyes open as he felt his father’s weight. “Daddy?”

“Hey,” John cooed, carding his hand through the boy’s hair. “I’m home.”

“Yaaayy...” Hamish yawned, scooting over and giving the doctor some room. John took the hint, kicking off his shoes and crawling up on the bed, leaning back against the headboard and adjusting as Hamish rested his head on John’s chest. “I liked closing the store with Sherlock.”

“Yeah? Sorry I wasn’t there, I went out with Aunt Harry and by the time we finished, I had to go to work.”

“It’s okay. Sherlock took me home. I’m glad you’re safe..”

John felt his heart cry. “Me too. Sarah says hi.”

“Mmmmmm...” Hamish groaned, and John looked down to see closed, sleepy eyes and tiny hands wrapped around his favorite toy; a faded, stuffed Nemo. The doctor allowed himself to relax, letting his head fall back against the headboard and his hand continue to stroke Hamish’s hair. The ocean-themed walls mixed with blues and greens brought comfort to his eyes, which slowly closed, and his problems faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you aren't sobbing over the fact that Finding Nemo is Hamish's favorite movie, you need to rewatch it. :(


End file.
